“May
I begin by saving how much I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” said Nat. “I
can only imagine the opposition you must have faced from every quarter and am
well aware that you did not settle for the easy option.” Jimmy lowered his
head.
Fletcher
raised a hand. “It’s my wife you have to thank.” He paused. “Not me. But it’s
me that you have to convince.”
“Then
please pass on my grateful thanks to Mrs. Davenport, and let me assure you that
I will answer any questions you put to me.”
“I
only have one question,” said Fletcher, as he stared down at the blank sheet of
paper, “and it’s the question a lawyer never asks because it can only
compromise his or her ethical position. But on this occasion I will not
consider discussing this case until that question has been answered.”
Nat
nodded, but didn’t respond. Fletcher raised his head and stared across the
table at his would-be rival. Nat held his gaze.
“Did
you murder Ralph Elliot?”
“No,
I did not,” replied Nat, without hesitation.
Fletcher
looked back down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, and flicked over
the top page to reveal a second page covered in row upon row of neatly prepared
questions.
“Then
let me next ask you
. .”
said Fletcher, looking back up
at his client.
The
trial was set for the second week in July.
Nat
was surprised by how little time he needed to spend with his newly appointed
counsel once he had gone over his story again and again, and that stopped only
when Fletcher was confident he had mastered every detail.
Although
both recognized the importance of Nat’s evidence, Fletcher spent just as much
time reading and rereading the two statements that Rebecca Elliot had made to
the police, Don Culver’s own report on what had taken place that night, and the
notes of Detective
Petrowski
, who was in charge of
the case. He warned Nat. “Rebecca will have been coached by the state’s
attorney, and every question you can think of she will have had time to
consider and reconsider.
By
the time she steps onto the witness stand, she’ll be as well rehearsed as any
actress on opening night. But,” Fletcher paused, “she still has a problem.”
“And
what’s that?” asked Nat.
“If
Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband, she must have lied to the police, so there
are bound to be loose ends that they are unaware of. First we have to find
them, and then we have to tie them up.”
Interest
in the gubernatorial race stretched far beyond the boundaries of Connecticut.
Articles on the two men appeared in journals as diverse as the New Yorker and
the National Inquirer, so that by the time the trial opened, there wasn’t a
hotel room available within twenty miles of Hartford.
With
three months still to go before
election day
, the
opinion polls showed Fletcher had a twelve-point lead, but he knew that if he
was able to prove Nat’s innocence, that could be reversed overnight.
The
trial was due to open on July 11, but the major networks already had their
cameras on top of the buildings opposite the courthouse and along the
sidewalks, as well as many more handhelds in the streets. They were there to
interview anyone remotely connected with the trial, despite the fact it was
days before Nat would hear the words “All rise.”
Fletcher
and Nat tried to conduct their election campaigns as if it was business as
usual, although no one pretended it was. They quickly discovered that there
wasn’t a hall they couldn’t fill, a rally they couldn’t pack, a clambake they
couldn’t sell twice over, however remote the district. In fact, when they both
attended a charity fund-raiser in support of an orthopedic wing to be added to
the Gates Memorial Hospital in Hartford, tickets were changing hands at five
hundred dollars each. This was one of those rare elections when campaign
contributions kept pouring in. For several weeks they were a bigger draw than
Frank Sinatra.
Neither
man slept the night before the trial was due to open, and the chief of police
didn’t even bother to go to bed. Don Culver had detailed a hundred officers to
be on duty outside the courthouse, ruefully remembering how many of Hartford’s
petty criminals were taking advantage of his over stretched force.
Fletcher
was the first member of the defense team to appear on the courthouse steps, and
he made it clear to the waiting press that he would not be making a statement
or answering any questions until the verdict had been delivered. Nat arrived a
few minutes later, accompanied by Tom and Su Ling, and if it hadn’t been for
police assistance, they might never have got into the building.
Once
inside the courthouse, Nat walked straight along the marble corridor that led
to court number seven, acknowledging onlookers’ kind remarks, but only nodding
politely in response as instructed by his counselor. Once he’d entered the
courtroom, Nat felt a thousand eyes boring into him as he continued on down the
center aisle, before taking his place on the left of Fletcher at the defense
table.
“Good
morning, counselor,” said Nat.
4i9
“Good
morning, Nat,” replied Fletcher, looking up from a pile of papers, “I hope
you’re prepared for a week of boredom while we select a jury.”
“Have
you settled on a profile for the ideal juror?” Nat asked.
“It’s
not quite that easy,” said Fletcher, “because I can’t make up my mind if I
should select people who support you or me.”
“Are
there twelve people in Hartford who support you?” asked Nat.
Fletcher
smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor, but once the jury’s
sworn in, I want you looking serious and concerned.
A man to
whom a great injustice has been done.”
Fletcher
turned out to be right, because it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that the full
complement of twelve jurors and two alternatives were finally seated in their
places, following argument, counter argument and several objections being
raised by both sides. They finally settled on seven men and five women. Two of
the women and one of the men were black, five from a professional background,
two working mothers, three blue-collar workers, one secretary and one
unemployed.
“How
about their political persuasions?” asked
Nat.
“My
bet is, four Republicans, four Democrats, and four I can’t be sure of.”
“So
what’s our next problem, counselor?”
“How
to get you off, and still grab the votes of the four I’m not sure of,” said
Fletcher as they parted on the bottom step of the courthouse.
Nat
found that, whenever he went home in the evening, he would quickly forget the
trial, as his mind continually returned to Luke. However much he tried to
discuss other things with Su Ling, there was so often only one thought on her
mind. “If only I’d shared my secret with Luke,” she said again and again,
“perhaps he would still be alive.” on the following Monday, after the jury had
been sworn in, Judge
Kravats
invited the state’s
attorney to make his opening statement.
Richard
Ebden
rose slowly from his place. He was a tall,
elegant, gray-haired man, who had a reputation for beguiling juries. His dark
blue suit was the one he always wore on the opening day of a trial. His white
shirt and blue tie instilled a feeling of trust.
The
state’s attorney was proud of his prosecution record, which was somewhat ironic
because he was a mild-mannered, church-going family man, who even sang bass in
the local choir.
Ebden
rose from his place, pushed
back his chair, and walked slowly out into the open well of the court, before
turning to face the jury.
“Members
of the jury,” he began, “in all my years as an advocate, I have rarely come across
a more open-and-shut case of homicide.”
Fletcher
leaned across to Nat and whispered, “Don’t worry, it’s his usual opening ...
but despite this, comes next.”
“But
despite this, I must still take you through the events of the late evening and
early morning of February twelfth and thirteenth.”
“Mr.
Cartwright,” he said, turning slowly to face the accused, “had appeared on a
television program with Ralph Elliot-a popular and much respected figure in our
community and, perhaps more importantly, favorite to win the Republican
nomination, which might well have taken him on to be governor of the state we
all love so much. Here was a man at the pinnacle of his career, about to
receive the accolades of a grateful electorate for years of unselfish service
to the community, and what was to be his reward? He ended up being murdered by
his closest rival.
“And
how did this unnecessary tragedy come about? Mr. Cartwright is asked a question
as to whether his wife was an illegal immigrant-such is the stuff of robust
politics-a question I might add that he was unwilling to answer, and why?
Because he knew it to be the truth, and he had remained silent on
the subject for over twenty years.
And having refused to answer that
question, what does Mr. Cartwright do next? He tries to shift the blame onto
Ralph Elliot.
The
moment the program is over, he starts to shout obscenities at him, calls him a
bastard, accuses him of setting up the question, and the most damning of all,
says, I will still kill you.”“
Ebden
stared at the
jury, repeating the five words slowly, “I will still kill you.”
“Don’t
rely on my words to convict Mr. Cartwright, for you are about to discover that
this is not rumor, hearsay or my imagination, because the entire conversation
between the two rivals was recorded on television for posterity. I realize this
is unusual, your honor, but under the circumstances, I’d like to show this tape
to the jury at this juncture.”
Ebden
nodded toward
his table and an assistant pressed a button.
For
the next twelve minutes, Nat stared at a screen that had been set up opposite
the jury, and was painfully reminded just how angry he had been.
Once
the tape had been switched off,
Ebden
continued with
his opening statement.
“However,
it is still the responsibility of the state to show what actually took place
after this angry and vindictive man had charged out of the studio.”
Ebden
lowered his voice. “He returns home to discover that
his son-his only child-has committed suicide. Now all of us can well understand
the effect that such a tragedy might have on a father. And as it turned out,
members of the jury, this tragic death triggered a chain of events that was to
end in the cold-blooded murder of Ralph Elliot.
Cartwright
tells his wife that after he has been to the hospital, he will return home
immediately, but he has no intention of doing so, because he has already
planned a detour that will take him to Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’s house.
And
what could possibly have been the reason for this nocturnal visit at two a.m.?
There can only have been one purpose, to remove Ralph Elliot from the
gubernatorial race. Sadly for his family and our state, Mr. Cartwright
succeeded in his mission.
“He drives over uninvited to the
Elliots
”
family home at two A.m.
The door is answered by Mr.
Elliot, who has been in his study working on an acceptance speech. Mr.
Cartwright barges in, punching Mr. Elliot so hard on the nose that he staggers
back into the corridor, only to see his adversary come charging in after him.
Mr. Elliot recovers in time to run into his study and retrieve a gun that he
kept in a drawer in his desk. He turns just as Cartwright leaps on him, kicking
the gun out of his hand, thus ensuring that Mr. Elliot has no chance of
defending himself. Cartwright then grabs the pistol, stands over his victim and
without a moment’s hesitation, shoots him through the heart. He then aims a
second shot into the ceiling to leave the impression that a struggle had taken
place. Cartwright then drops the gun, runs out of the open door and, jumping
into his car, drives quickly back to his home.
Unbeknownst
to him, he left behind a witness to the entire episode-the victim’s wife, Mrs.
Rebecca Elliot. When she heard the first shot, Mrs. Elliot ran from her bedroom
to the top of the stairs and moments after hearing the second shot, she watched
in horror as Cartwright bolted out of the front door. And just as the
television camera had recorded every detail earlier in the evening, Mrs. Elliot
will describe to you with the same accuracy, exactly what took place later that
night.”
The
state’s attorney turned his attention away from the jury for a moment and
looked directly at Fletcher. “In a few moments’ time, defense counsel will rise
from his place and with all his famed charm and oratory will attempt to bring
tears to your eyes as he tries to explain away what really happened. But what
he can’t explain away is the body of an innocent man murdered in cold blood by
his political rival. What he can’t explain away is his television message, “I
will still kill you.” What he can’t explain away is a witness to the murder-Mr.
Elliot’s widow, Rebecca.”